Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 36

As Maeneb ran over the dunes she was still thinking about why Durba had done it. Or, rather, she was trying not to think, but the thoughts revolved and would not rest until she looked at them.

A will to die? Some need to impress? Had Durba thought she could actually succeed in disabling the great darkburn? Sheer stupidity?

You did the same yourself, one of her revolving thoughts reminded her.

Not the same, she thought back. I was not reckless. I withdrew. Why didn’t she?

She was running east towards the monastery, its broken top just now becoming visible. As she climbed the final dune and looked out from its grassy dome, all other thoughts retreated. She gaped at the scene.

What had happened? Battle? Ambush? Her heart was jumping wildly. In vain she ordered it to calm, and told herself that all those corpses looked like stonemen. And that there weren’t that many of them after all. A dozen, maybe fifteen, scattered, seeping blood: an attack, but small and quickly overcome.

She stepped closer. None of these men’s stones had yet been harvested. No Riders lingered here to do the grisly job although in the distance she could now see groups of them were gathered, and heard raised voices wafting on the breeze. Were the Riders arguing about the darkburn; or did they expect another ambush?

One of the dead men made a gurgling groan. Maeneb walked over to him, feeling for her knife, which of course was not there. The stoneman was twitching; a short man, five stones in his head, a gash across his throat, another opening up his belly. She picked up a knife that lay nearby and dispatched him by widening the first gash. He didn’t seem to notice her before he died.

Then she inspected the knife – a typical stoneman’s, plain and crude but sharp; it would do for now. She stuck in it her belt.

Better check for other survivors. She walked around the group kicking at the bodies. They were all extremely dead. One, half-covered by a bloody cloak, lay on top of a dead comrade; she tugged the upper corpse away and sighed in regret and exasperation.

No stones in this head. But the man was not a Rider either. He had ridden with the hunters, and Yaret had been friendly with him. Zan, the homeless vagabond: a solemn man, no fighter. She threw the cloak over his face, and straightened up. What was it that Yaret had done on being confronted with a death? Some ritual of her people. Some acknowledgement, a murmur in her own strange tongue.

Maeneb said to the cloak, “Sorry. You tried, at least. Go well, wherever you go.”

Before she turned away it occurred to her that she could do with some shoes. Zan’s feet were too big; and so were those of the dead stonemen beside him. So she returned to the first corpse, which was the smallest, and pulled the shoes off the now lifeless feet. They were surprisingly robustly made, with leather laced across the top, and a pattern of coiled rope glued on the soles. They fitted, more or less. At least they didn’t feel too bad as she began to walk away.

And paused.

Maeneb turned around again, and said aloud, “I need the shoes. You needed to die. I suppose you were just following orders. Not always the best thing to do.” Then she shrugged, and continued on her way.

The shoes felt odd, but they didn’t fall off. As she walked she saw many Riders gathered over by the monastery, while others to her left were thronging round the ruined town in strange disorder. She heard raised voices, shouts. Where was Huldarion?

Recognising Parthenal, she waved and began to run towards him, until one of the new shoes did fall off. He strode towards her while she was retying the stiff lace.

“What happened?” she said.

“About twenty stonemen happened,” he replied. “Must have been hiding on the shore; probably a small garrison who were left here. They attacked Solon and his company.”

“He dealt with them, though,” she said.

“Yes. But it wasn’t as straightforward as it should have been,” said Parthenal, frowning. “There was some fracas in the troops. Those men of Melmet; you know the ones that Yaret hung out with?”

“Vaguely.”

“They were causing trouble. Don’t know why. What happened to the giant darkburn? Someone said the sea had frozen but I haven’t had a chance to look. Is it true?”

“It is. The darkburn fell from the monastery down into the sea, which froze. It got carried out on the ice; quite a long way out last time I looked.”

“Leor’s work?”

“Probably.”

“Are you all right? You’re very wet.”

“I’ll manage.” She straightened up. “Where’s Huldarion? I need to let him know Gaelera’s safe. We both ended up in the water, but now she’s back on shore.”

“Alone?”

“She’s got a Kelvhan captain guarding her.”

Parthenal nodded. “Good. Huldarion’s still inside the building.” He pointed to the monastery, a newly-shattered, blackened shell. “The entrances are blocked so they’ve been trying to get him out.”

They walked together to the entrance where Ikelder and a team of men were working in near silence, punctuated only by grunts. As Maeneb approached the rubble-filled doorway two men were lifting out a broken slab.

“Nearly there,” Ikelder called into the wall. “Can you push it on your side?”

In answer, the heaped stones shuddered, and more fell away in a shower of gravel. Huldarion’s head and shoulders appeared in the gap, grey and aged with dust. He looked as tired as Maeneb had ever seen him.

He withdrew, and after the clunking of more rubble, Meya emerged to clamber inelegantly through the enlarged opening with Ikelder’s aid. Next came Ingebré and Yaret, then Tamu, the five Kelvhan soldiers, Herval, Delgeb, Leor and lastly Huldarion himself. All safe then. All safe except for Durba. It bewildered her.

“Maeneb!” exclaimed Yaret. “You’re all right! Are you all right?” She was very pale. She stumbled forwards towards Maeneb as if about to take her in her arms. Maeneb gave her a look which made her stop.

“Yes. So is Gaelera,” she said, now addressing Huldarion, who stood brushing grit from his clothes. “She’s uninjured, and is down at the seashore half a mile west. The Kelvhan captain’s looking after her.”

“Novesnu,” said Huldarion, his voice hoarse and sounding oddly desolate, when he should have been relieved.

“Whatever his name is. He saved Gaelera from drowning, but then the sea began to heat up alarmingly. We were all about to broil when the water turned to ice.” Maeneb looked at Leor. “Your work, I presume, Leor? Very effective it was too. Apart from nearly freezing us alive.”

“I froze the sea? The whole sea?” Leor wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving smears of ash. He sounded stunned.

“Not all. A good part of it. The darkburn was a long way out amidst the ice when last I looked.”

“My Lord Huldarion,” put in Ikelder, “I can confirm that the ice is widespread; the watchmen saw no darkburn, but did note a distant cloud of steam far out to sea.”

“I froze the sea?” repeated Leor.

“You must know what you did,” said Maeneb, impatient.

“Thank you, Ikelder,” said Huldarion. “Please take three men, go to find the Lady Gaelera, and escort her back to us.” His voice was emotionless; his mind a whirlpool of emotions that Maeneb could not begin to decipher. “Leor,” he went on, “go with Ikelder. Find out exactly what this spell of yours has done. Make sure it’s strong enough to keep the darkburn well away until we leave this place.”

“But don’t let the ice spread too far,” warned Maeneb.

“I’ll go and look,” said Leor, subdued. He went off with Ikelder, and Tamu scuttled after them.

“We are most glad to see you are unhurt, my Lord Huldarion,” said Parthenal. Maeneb could sense his true relief, unlike Huldarion’s; an odd mixture of both pain and joy. “And my lady too, of course.”

Huldarion, brushing down his sleeves, did not immediately answer.

“But we’d best move as soon as possible,” added Parthenal, “in case this whole structure should decide to tumble.”

“Indeed, we better had,” said Meya. “Our carriages are over by the ruined temple, are they not?”

And now Huldarion looked out and saw the crowd of Riders arguing. A faint hubbub of raised voices was audible. “What has been going on?” His voice was weary.

“There was an attack by a small number of stonemen, who must have been lurking nearby. They were put down easily – Solon and his men saw to it – but it appears to have caused some dispute,” answered Parthenal.

“I must go and see,” said Huldarion. Still he did not move.

“Let us summon your people to the temple,” Meya said, “where you may speak to all of them at once, and they may see you are unhurt.”

“Indeed,” said Huldarion. Yet it was a few more seconds before he stirred himself and walked away.

Yaret and Maeneb followed. Parthenal joined them, whispering to Maeneb, “Can you tell what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s shaken up,” she whispered back. “I can’t tell more than that. Huldarion has always been hard to read.” But even if she knew Huldarion’s thoughts she would not have divulged them. Up on the monastery roof she had felt from Huldarion a definite and surprising fear – blue-grey, as thick and clammy as the sea. She would not tell Parthenal that.

Parthenal shook his head. “I should have been readier when the alarm sounded. But I was fast asleep.” He looked around. “Where did Tamu go?”

“With Leor.” As they walked behind Huldarion she outlined to him, in brief words, how the linwyrm had attacked the group on top of the monastery, and had been attacked in turn.

“That was extraordinarily brave of you, to try and stab it. I couldn’t move,” said Yaret. “And when you fell over the edge into the sea…”

“I swam,” said Maeneb shortly, to avoid any show of sympathy that Yaret might feel tempted to make. “I have both my legs, which helped.”

As they neared the town Uld came hurrying up, saluted Huldarion and began to talk in a low, urgent voice. After a moment Huldarion stopped dead; then he moved on stiffly, and more slowly. The fear was back. A different fear perhaps; reddish-brown, less clogging. But dismaying to Maeneb none the less.

Huldarion is out of his depth here, she thought. What is going on? What more can go wrong than already has? What do I not know?

More Riders came running up, all wanting to speak to Huldarion. He motioned them away and kept trudging towards the temple.

There, on the muddy grass before the central stones, a fight was taking place – or rather, was just finishing. One of the men of Melmet was picking himself up off the ground, while Orbrel flailed at him with wild fists. Orbrel was usually so good-natured that it was a shock to see him being restrained by other Riders.

“Ach,” said Yaret in a tone of exasperation. “That’s Inthed. I might have guessed.”

“A trouble-maker, is he?” muttered Parthenal.

Maeneb did not hear her reply. The crowd was shifting, parting to let Huldarion through; and when it closed again she was separated from the other pair.

Huldarion climbed up on to a fallen slab and turned to face his people, who were restless, many calling out. The single upright stone leaned heavily towards him, throwing a shadow on his blighted face.

“Be still. I can hear only one of you at a time,” he said evenly, and out of long duty and respect for him the crowd immediately fell silent. He looked around and said again, “Be still,” although Maeneb knew that he himself was anything but. He was bidding himself as much as his Riders. Yet they stilled, like children calmed by a beloved teacher’s voice, and waited while he spoke.

“My people,” said Huldarion, “believe me, I understand how disturbing was that immense darkburn from the sea. A thing unprecedented – a dreadful thing indeed – but it has now been quelled, and the stonemen beaten. We shall leave this place as soon as possible. So have courage.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Landel, his voice high; and again a dozen voices called out, breaking against each other like turbulent waves.

“Stop,” Huldarion commanded. “Hilbré: speak.”

She spoke in clear, low tones. “My lord. As Landel says, it was not the darkburn that threw us into such confusion. Nor was it the sudden attack by stonemen over yonder. The outcome of that fight was not in doubt – until a rumour started up amongst Solon’s company, the ones who fought those stonemen. The rumour spread, and we all need to know the truth of it.”

“A rumour,” said Huldarion.

“A rumour that some of the stonemen may be really children.”

“Children!” echoed Landel, in an anguished cry.

Maeneb felt Huldarion’s mind freeze in apprehension. Yet his face frowned, as if he did not understand. “Children?”

“People are saying that those with the fewest stones are only boys,” Hilbré continued. “Not even teenagers, perhaps – no more than ten or twelve years old.”

“People are saying?” repeated Huldarion, more sternly now. “What people? Where did this story come from?”

“I heard it first from Landel,” Hilbré said.

“Well, Landel? What have you to say?”

“I heard it from Brodenir,” said Landel, his voice high with emotion.

Huldarion’s gaze sought out Brodenir, who had acted as Solon’s second-in-command since Aretor had been wounded. “Brodenir? What’s your excuse? Did I promote you for rumour-mongering?”

“I had the story from a man of Melmet,” he replied. “That one who’s been brawling, over there.” He pointed with some disdain to the man Yaret had named as Inthed.

Huldarion turned to Inthed, who was rubbing his arms. “So, a brawler and a trouble-maker. Why were you fighting Orbrel?” he enquired, with ice now in his voice as well as in his thoughts.

Inthed massaged his shoulder, looking sulky. “He called me a liar,” he muttered.

“And are you not a liar? Did you not start this tale?”

The man shook his head. “I had it off the hunter Zan.”

“Then where is Zan? Let him be brought forward.”

Heads turned. Nobody brought forth Zan, whom Maeneb saw in her mind’s eye quite clearly, lying dead and blood-streaked amongst the stoneman corpses near the shore.

She stayed silent. She did not wish to be the one who brought the news to this ice-cold Huldarion. She could tell him later. Or she could tell somebody else to tell him where Zan’s body lay.

“So: the hunter Zan began this rumour,” said Huldarion scathingly to Inthed. “But you decided to continue it – to spread it to my Riders in the midst of battle, knowing it would alarm and distract those who heard it, knowing that such distraction could be fatal to them.”

“Only right that they should know,” said Inthed with sulky defiance. “Zan told me just as the stonemen came running at us. They’d been hiding somewhere by the shore. When Solon called us all to arms, Zan said to me, they’re only kids, the ones with two stones are only about ten, and it’s magic makes them look so old. He was in a real state. Threw down his sword. I had to pick it up for him. He might have thrown it down again after, I don’t know, but the stonemen arrived and I had to fight and I didn’t see what he did next.”

“Zan’s first language, as I believe, is not Standard,” said Huldarion dismissively.

“He speaks it well enough,” said Inthed, lifting his chin.

“And he makes up stories well enough. I should like him to be found. Meanwhile we have other more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Pressing?” demanded Landel. “What could be more pressing than the matter of whether or not we’re fighting children?”

“Other matters,” said Huldarion, raising his voice, “namely, the darkburn which still lurks out to sea. The Lady Gaelera is down on the shore: I have sent for her. But it would be wise to set a watch there also for the darkburn. Uld, please take half a dozen Riders and attend to it.”

Uld nodded.

“The rest of you,” Huldarion continued, “are to form into your companies. Crade, yours is to muster the horses and hunt for any that are fled: Orbrel and Rothir, yours are to organise the carts – where is Rothir? Never mind. Just find him and give him my instructions. Delgeb and Parthenal, your companies are to pack up the tents; and the others to scour the countryside for any remaining stonemen who may still lurk and try to ambush us. Patrol on foot, if necessary, if your horses are not quickly found.”

“The scouts are out there, are they not?” asked Crade, waving to the north.

“They are. None have yet returned with any adverse reports. None the less we need to guard against the possibility.” Huldarion spoke now with his accustomed authority, although Maeneb detected that his mind still heaved and coiled with shadowed turmoil. “While you search, look also for the hunter Zan. If you find him, bring him here. I wish to know from whence he got his information.” With those words the shadows took a denser shape: not fear, but anger.

Maeneb turned away. She was certainly not going to reveal now that she had seen Zan’s body, and risk the outpouring of that anger upon her. She rejoined Parthenal and Yaret in thoughtful silence.

“Well,” said Parthenal after walking for a moment. “That’s quite a story. Infant stonemen. It has certainly upset Huldarion.”

“Does it not upset you?” asked Maeneb.

“I don’t know,” he said. “They’re trying to kill me. I don’t have time to ask how old they are while the axe is flying at my head. So I don’t think it does particularly upset me.”

“Huldarion didn’t mention Durba, or the other dead,” said Yaret quietly.

“No. That is surprising.”

“How are they to be buried?”

Parthenal put a hand upon her shoulder. “We’ll see to it once the tents are down. Maeneb? Would you like to be involved?”

Maeneb shook her head. “I’m going to look for stonemen,” she replied. She would rather be away from everyone; from Durba, from the darkburn, from the dead Zan and the live Gaelera. Especially Gaelera.

Her horse Shoda was one of those that had fled. Maeneb did not waste time going in search of her, but gathered a pack with some food from a provision cart. After slinging a waterskin over her shoulder, she set out on foot along with several other Riders. Declining to pair up with any of them, she kept herself apart. While they progressed, they gradually fanned out. The fan grew wide: the gaps grew large.

The ruined town and monastery behind her were diminished. Mere toys of long-departed men. The waves’ long chant became inaudible. The wind took over, sighing through the grass; birds tumbled, blown against the clouds. She found no stonemen but after a while she saw a lone horseman galloping towards her and stood still to watch him.

It was Rothir. He pulled up a few yards away and gasped, “Huldarion?”

She pointed behind her. He nodded and rode on.

No one else appeared; no figures marred the emptiness of grass. It ought to have been soothing. Soon she met a stream, and then another: her feet squelched and she regretted her lost boots, now at the bottom of the sea.

Along with Durba. But no, Durba was not in the sea. She was on the shore, a burnt thing waiting to be buried.

“Stonemen,” Maeneb told herself severely. “You’re here to look for stonemen.”

There were no stonemen in that ocean of thick grass. No-one jumped up. No-one lay face down, and seeping blood. The land was blank.

But now and then, amidst the blankness, Maeneb glimpsed a face. She knew it was not real. It was a dead man’s face: it had a neat red-golden beard, bright ear-rings, a foolishly surprised expression, as the man put his wavering hand up to his neck and felt her knife.

Then he was gone. And there he was again, for a flickering instant, until she looked properly. No, gone. The Kelvhan nobleman that she had killed. The secret only Maeneb and Gaelera knew.

The secret that the Kelvhans must not know. And Huldarion must not know. That anger...

Gaelera held her knowledge of the murder like a hidden knife. Did she mean blackmail? What would she want Maeneb to do in payment for her silence?

I will not do it, Maeneb thought, whatever she wants; I will not allow her, there would be no end to it. I will not let her near me. I will not stay anywhere Gaelera is.

And with that thought she kept on walking.